It has been months when I realized that I haven't written anything that make sense. As of late, my journal entry is mostly in short paragraphs about how my day/week went. Most of the entry no longer contain the art that I have been trying to hone ever since.
When I started to work, everything became a little too limited. My availability becomes limited. The time of thinking becomes limited. The time for art is limited that sometimes it's no longer even in my schedule of "to-do's". I think the more time pass, the more I am losing my old self.
Most of the time, I have been blaming work and how it had placed me in the world of apoplexy. I blamed work about how it turned me into a programmed robot. But now, work was no longer "the blame" but rather, myself. I know that I am drifting; and I let myself drift. I no longer fought holding-on to myself. Thus, I let myself go.
The only payment that I give myself during my time of availability is an overindulgence of gluttony and vanity. I am shaping myself to be part of those people who are cemented to the standards of the world; to become someone with variety. To become someone, to the point of losing one's self to a world's pantomime.
I was thinking that maybe this is what it ought to be.
And so I let my clock tick; and I let myself drift.
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